


Take 7 (the lights, camera, action remix)

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Bad Acting, Co-stars to lovers, DIY romance, Dev/Niall in every AU, IKEA, M/M, Remix, TV Show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: Simon and Baz meet on the set of their new television programme,DIY Romance. Cue weeks of pining, dark looks and fumbled lines. Simon's inability to keep the script right in his mind can't have anything to do with his ridiculously good looking co-star, can it?
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 44
Kudos: 230
Collections: Carry On Remix





	Take 7 (the lights, camera, action remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSmallTownGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSmallTownGirl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Chance Encounters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23795878) by [TheSmallTownGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSmallTownGirl/pseuds/TheSmallTownGirl). 



> This fic is part of the Carry On Remix event organised by [aralias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias). It includes dialogue and description from the original fic, as part of the TV show's script. Thank you to [sconelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconelover/pseuds/sconelover) and [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for beta reading! Thanks for reading, and I hope you like it.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/50043848883/in/dateposted-public/)

**“DIY ROMANCE”  
**  
**SEASON 1, EPISODE 4: “LOST IN YOU(R FURNITURE STORE)”**  
**SCENE 1, TAKE 6**  
  
  


A **WELLBELOVE TELEVISION** PRODUCTION  
**DIRECTED** by **PENELOPE BUNCE**  
  
  


**STARRING:**  
T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch as DEV  
Simon Snow as NIALL  
Agatha Wellbelove as TRIXIE  
?????????? as MORDELIA

**FILMED AT UNREEL STUDIOS, SMYTHESBY-ON-MOULD**

* * *

  
  


[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/49954009561/in/dateposted-public/)

**SIMON**

“And... _action!_ ”

Lights burst to life and I hear the director, Penelope Bunce, call from across set. I try to adjust my script so the cameras won't catch it, and beg my breathing to even out. Nobody wants to hear me wheezing over ambient background music like an over-burdened tractor.

I shouldn't have a script on set at all―it _has_ to be cheating―but I get confused about stage directions and mess things up. (They're not called stage directions when it's for telly, are they?) (Screen directions?)

The nerves kick in when the cameras are rolling, and words fall out of my head. We're on take six, so I can't mess up again today. I'll be down the local newsagent's looking for WANTED: EXTRAS notices in the classifieds, sacked from my first real acting job. Bloody _tragic_.

I need to prove to Penny that I can do this―that she hasn't cocked things up by casting me. I was brought in last minute by a friend of a friend, after the bloke originally picked to play my character dropped out. It's my first proper TV role, and Penny promised the producers I'd be a good fit...I mean, you can never guarantee how long programmes will run these days, in the age of streaming, and all that. But even if it's just one season, I want to get it right...give a good showing of myself for Penny. (And for my own career prospects, I suppose.)

Focus, Simon. You know how to act. (Sort of.) Find your place in the scene.

_There's a very handsome stranger looking lost in the middle of the store._

That's how it starts. Every episode is about me and my co-star meeting in a different way. Each script has a different DIY theme, though I don't know _why._..in the first episode, we met on a building site. Second, I was a decorator and he was a stay-at-home dad. Third, we argued over a garden fence. This week we're in a postmodern flat-pack furniture shop and he's the customer, while I'm a clueless assistant. Our eyes meet over a polyester rug, sparks fly―that sort of thing.

It's hard, falling in love with Baz every week. Without _actually_ falling in love, I mean.

We meet in different settings, but the episodes always end same the way...we share an achingly detached stage kiss, and then the week after, we begin again as strangers. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

Like it _wasn't_ ridiculously romantic and enough to keep me awake at night, thinking about him.

Like it was only ever a job, without feeling.

Yeah, right...if I could convince anyone _that_ was true, I'd be up for a fucking BAFTA.

This week we're in a family-friendly assault course of a furniture store...but _store_ is a bit of a stretch, if you ask me―the studio only built up the bits needed for filming, so it's a shell. They did get real props from the IKEA down the road, but only stuff that didn't sell because it was faulty or out of season. (Badly painted deck chairs, chipped toilet seats, ragged bath mats―that sort of thing.) I let the script run through my mind, trying to sink into my surroundings. Trying to make it real.

_The stranger has long black hair, stony grey eyes and cheekbones that would put [INSERT CULTURALLY RELEVANT VAMPIRE REFERENCE HERE] to shame._

Well, they got that part right. (Not the vampire bit. Are they on about the bloke from _Twilight?_ I suppose that's relevant again.)

My co-star's name is Baz, and he's all of the above and quite a bit more, if you ask me. (Don't. Ask me, that is. I'll go red and start spluttering and it'll be a _nightmare._ ) (He'd probably batter me to death with a flat-pack bedside table if he knew how many hours of my life I've lost, fixated on his cheekbones.)

“Mordelia? Mordelia, you insufferable little witch! Get back here before I call the RSPCA and tell them a rabid squirrel's on the loose.”

We pause to allow time for the response, tossed out by an extra from an unseen hiding place: _"Get stuffed! The RSPCA won't do shit!"_

Baz does a top job with his lines. Penny hasn't yelled at him once, in the entire month since we started filming...it's blatant favouritism, but what can you do. He's a proper actor―he's been in films and everything. (Well, straight-to-TV films, but that's definitely more than I'll ever do.) (He was number two in Celebz Objectified's list of “Top Ten Most Handsome Faces” last year, right behind Hugh Grant.) (Baz says he's one minor, accidental disfigurement away from the top spot, and I reckon he'd actually do it.)

Baz is a great actor. In a sinister way. It's like he was born to be a posh, dramatic tosser who loses his sister in a furniture shop. Every week, he completely _becomes_ his character―I never doubt him for a second.

He hasn't noticed how much I stare at him, but Penny has. She's glaring at me furiously right now, jabbing a finger at her annotated script, then drawing the same finger across her throat.

_Shit. Best concentrate before I'm out of a job and/or bleeding to death on the floor of a fake IKEA._

I swallow. She'll be furious if I mess up another take. I fold over the corner of my script and try not to look too obviously like I'm acting. (It's so _hard_. I _am_ acting.)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/49954009541/in/dateposted-public/)

“Well, Niall? Are you going to go and see what that customer wants, or are you going to keep staring at him like a lovestruck idiot?” (It's a scarily relevant line.) (Not that I'd ever admit the _lovestruck_ part.)

Agatha (or Trixie, I should say, when we're on set) doesn't give two shits about the show. She's only here because her dad's one of the fancy high-up studio executives, and he literally handed her the part. She delivers every line like it's made of oak and she's an axe, hacking away at it―which fits the DIY theme _,_ at least―and generally gives the impression she doesn't want to be here. (She doesn't. She told me she checks out mentally at the beginning of each take, and pretends she's on a beach in California.)

Still, even though her delivery's a bit wooden, she's bang on the money. I _do_ want to see what he wants. (Baz, not Dev.) (That's his character's name. Dev. My character's called Niall.)

Penny's staring at me again―is it really that bloody obvious, how much I fancy Baz? I flail around for my line.

“I, er―well, he doesn't really look like he needs―”

Trixie/Agatha rolls her eyes. ( _Not_ helpful.) ( _Not_ in the script.) “Well, then,” she says mechanically, playing with her not-part-of-the-costume necklace. “I suppose _I'll_ have to help the handsome stranger. Oh, what a shame.” She walks across the set towards him. (She moves like she's on her way to court. Or the guillotine.) She trips on a protruding Blue Bag™ and Baz, too deep into his role to break character, helps her up, smoothing the way for the rest of the scene to unfold as planned.

Fuck, he's good at this.

_If I tripped over, would he put his arms around me? Or would he stand over my flailing limbs and sneer?_

(Not sure I'd mind that, to be honest.)

Penny snaps her fingers and I remember I'm supposed to be over there too, interrupting Trixie before she can get to the dashing Dev ahead of Niall. I tug at her sleeve, wresting her away from our handsome stranger. ( _So_ handsome.) ( _Help me._ )

“Trixie, I'll handle this!” I manoeuvre so I'm between them, and try not to worry about where the camera is. It's easier if I pretend we're really _here―_ me and Baz, meeting for the first time again.

This is where it all went wrong in the fifth take―the initial meeting. I remembered mid-line that we were on set, and he was _looking_ at me―all broody and fit, you know―and I crumbled.

_Not this time. You've got this._

_Take a second, then go._

I look at Baz and try to think of him as nothing more than a handsome [INSERT CULTURALLY RELEVANT VAMPIRE REFERENCE HERE] replica. I toss a furtive glance over my shoulder to see Penny snarling at me, shaking her fist, her gaudy purple ring on full display. (She insists that thing's magic. When I expressed doubt, she told me she was going to shove it up my arse. If I see stars, it's magic.)

I put on my best _Niall lives and dies for customer service_ face and walk over, tapping him on the shoulder. He spins, expression morphing to hide how frantic he is―how concerned Dev is for his sister. ( _He's even better at acting close-up._ )

“Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat. He's looking at me like I'm the only thing worth focusing on. (It's unnerving.) “Can I help you? You look a little, um―lost?”

It's not the most natural delivery, but Baz runs with it―at first he's taken aback, but then he peers around, messing with his hair. Finally, he looks at me with a trace of hopelessness in his eyes. (Fucking. Brilliant.)

“Yes, that would be most helpful. My sister...she ran off, scurrying rodent that she is, and I can't find her in this godforsaken labyrinth you call a store.” He gets the line just right―the perfect blend of sarcasm and concern. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Penny do a fist-pump. I can't believe she hasn't called cut yet...does that mean this take's going well?

“Right, so...what's your name?” I extend my hand, but Baz/Dev doesn't take it. (His character's a bit of an arsehole. It's in the script.) He looks at me with a sneer― _villainous sneer,_ that's what the directions say―and crosses his arms.

“Devonshire Basingstoke Grimble-Ditch.”

First time I read the script, my head was left reeling from all the fucking syllables. I asked Penny who came up with the names, and she shrugged―says you can't do much about a writer's whims. _“Just go with it, Simon.”_

I begin to splutter his name back at him, which isn't difficult. (It's a right bloody production.) “D-Devonshire―” He rolls his eyes.

“Devon is fine.”

“That's a mouthful. If you know what I mean.”

He squints at me. “I know what you mean. I have to live with it.”

“What about...Dev? Can I call you Dev?”

Another masterful display of acting as Baz furrows his brow, trying out the nickname. He sighs and nods, gives a ghost of a smile. (He's _so_ good.) (And _so_ pretty. Even if his character's name is stupid.)

“Well, then,” he says. There's a bead of sweat on his forehead―the cameras _do_ make it uncomfortably hot. Do they edit out our sweat in post-production? Is that someone's job? _Sweat watch._ “It's only fair you tell me _your_ name.”

I thought this part was a bit odd, when I first got the script. Exchanging pleasantries when his demonic little sister's missing? But I do as the directions dictate―I cock my head to one side and point to my name badge. Right on cue, he shakes his head and tuts.

“No, nothing so informal―I want your _full_ name.”

I grin. (Niall's a grinner. Makes my face ache by the end of the day.) “Alright, then―you asked for it. Niall Nicodemus Norbury.”

(Honestly, _who_ is naming these characters?)

“ _Norbury_ _?_ Nicodemus...? Your parents didn't love you very much, did they? Very well, Niall. Will you help me find my sister? Her name's positively wretched, too. Mor―”

“Mordelia,” I interrupt. Dev's been shouting it about enough. And I know the next stage(?) direction off by heart: _Dev looks at Niall for a long moment, then shakes his head again and turns on his heel, continuing to look for his wayward sibling._ I concentrate on keeping my face as blank as possible, thinking about how Niall would feel...and I suppose I must do a decent enough job, because Penny's giving me another enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Hang on. Hold the bloody phone. Is this take _the best one yet?!_

The director hasn't wished death on me, and Baz hasn't interrupted the scene to complain about me hamming it up...

...not going to lie. I'm pretty fucking impressed with myself.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/49953507863/in/dateposted-public/)

The next scene doesn't have much dialogue in it―it's mostly me and Baz searching through different IKEA departments, trying to find his sister. There's no little girl on set playing the part of Mordelia―apparently finding an actress moody and grim enough to convincingly pass as Dev's sibling has been difficult. (They're going to take auditions up north and see if they find better candidates.) It's hard to act out her scenes―Penny says to do what we can, and deliver our lines as if Mordelia's really out there to hear them. If worst comes to worst and we run out of time for re-shoots, they can always edit her in afterwards. (I reckon they should make her look like a goblin. A CGI hell-raiser.)

Baz and I bump shoulders as we look under bins of stuffed toys, rake through bare cupboards, and rifle through drawers piled with empty photo frames. I try to keep the directions in mind as we go, so I know what's coming next, but it's hard―I keep knocking into Baz, touching him when I don't really need to. (He doesn't move away.)

_Finally, just as Dev and Niall have almost given up hope, they head into the bed section to look for Mordelia. Every now and then, one of them calls her name―they reach a general consensus that it's not likely to help. Mordelia would rather stay lost._

Fuck...I know I've got a line coming up. Is it the one about stuffed crocodiles, or the one about ironing pillowcases? I rub the back of my neck, though the answer isn't there―it's in my script, but I left it on the other side of the set, and Penny will kill me if I go back for it.

I can't mess up now―not when the first half went so well, and Baz and I have finally got a bit of momentum. No...there's only one thing for it.

I'm going to have to improvise.

“So...what brings you to our store today?”

Baz glares at me, eyebrow raised, then looks away, pulling covers back from one of the showroom beds. (He's a professional. He'll catch on.) (And he does.)

“Buying a new oven for our mother―we were baking sour cherry scones when it caught fire. It's in a state far beyond repair. She's a baker, so naturally she was devastated―father sent us out to buy a new one for her, under pain of death.” He pauses, crinkling his nose. “Do you even _sell_ ovens at IKEA?”

I don't know the answer to that, so I fixate on the more interesting aspect of his lie. _“Sour cherry scones?”_ I'm actually salivating, which hopefully is in character for Niall. I haven't had scones for a while―I used to buy one every day at the uni café, before drama. (Obviously that's what I studied. For all the good it did me.) _Flaky, warm, delicious, lovely..._

Next to me, Baz smiles.

_Lovely, lovely, lovely._

“That whole story about my oven catching fire, and you fixate on scones?”

I feel my cheeks burning, and decide to end my adventures in improvisation where they began. (At least for this scene. Maybe forever. Haven't decided yet.) Baz casts a sidelong glance at me and I see he's still smiling.

 _I would kiss him there,_ I think. _Right on the edge of his smile._

Maybe I _haven't_ made a complete twat of myself?

I try to remember where we are in the script. Honestly, it's getting hard to concentrate with all this unintentional success going on―Penny waves at us to keep going, so we do. I make up my own screen(?) directions and hope for the best.

_After various slapstick incidents of a jape-ish nature, Dev and Niall find Mordelia hiding under a bed, inches away from where they stand. She giggles herself into oblivion as her brother gives her a stern talking-to about the pitfalls and perils of IKEA without an accompanying adult. Dev then turns to Niall, nods once, and goes about his business._

And just like that, my encounter with the handsome stranger ends.

The rest of the day's shooting focuses on Baz―I've only got one scene left, when he's ready to ring up his shopping and joins Niall's queue.

I look over at Penny, hoping for another smile. She positively _grins_ at me, so I grin back.

And I thank the gods of acting (Shakespeare? Colin Firth?) or whatever the hell's looking out for me today, for their act of _divine improvisation._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/49954291757/in/dateposted-public/)

**BAZ**

I could smite myself down for how bloody desperate I am. (And how bad I am at hiding it.)

Simon Snow, in the name of all that's holy, _improvising like a madman._ If there's a way to make me even more hopelessly gone for him, this would be it. Does he have _any_ idea how obsessed I am?

He definitely noticed my desperation just now, when I was drunk on improv, waxing lyrical about oven fires. Or is he truly as dim as the on-set makeup artist seems to believe?

Episode four. Episode four, and I'm a fool for him. I don't see how I can be expected to make it through an entire _series_ of this. There's a prime joke in there about _DIY_ and _pining_ and _pine furniture_ , but I haven't the capacity to conjure it.

I used to be stoic, you know. _Aloof_. Absolutely the last person on earth who'd stoop so low as to flirt with his co-star. ( _While the cameras are rolling,_ no less. Shame on you, Basil.) Still, if there's any luck in this life it'll all have flown over Snow's head―sweetly oblivious as he is―and that damned Bunce won't have a clever comment to make, either.

 _He's lovely_ , I tell myself. _Who_ wouldn't _be desperate?_

And Snow is a fine actor when he's not stuck in his own head, I don't mind saying it. That spark, the chemistry between us today...perhaps all he needs is a few takes to warm up, and then his natural magic can come pouring out. (Not like _that._ ) (Although...)

 _Focus_ , Basilton. Stay in character, and more importantly, stay in the scene your physical body is moving through―try not to entertain the idle fantasies lolling about your head.

Now, where were we?

The camera follows me about set, gabbling on at my imaginary sister, tracking my every gesture and pause...gaps where canned laughter will be edited in later, between terrible jokes. _DIY Romance_ will not be winning any awards for high-quality television, but the first few episodes have connected well with test audiences―apparently there are indeed people out there who want to watch the same two idiots fall in love each week, with little variance in dialogue.

I drift, I droop, I dreamily gaze into the distance.

It's all the same as last week and the week before. Merely mundane moments to be tolerated between the brighter ones, spent with him.

There's only one scene left that matters. Only one take remaining to live for, today. (Dramatic, but this _is_ technically drama, so it's permissible.) I imagine Bunce adjusting the script in her head as we go along.

_Mordelia and Dev are to leave the store without buying an oven, because IKEA doesn't sell them, and my two lead actors are idiots. Before he leaves, Dev resolves to find Niall―he'll be damned if he's leaving IKEA without saying goodbye. He grabs the nearest irrelevant item and goes to the check-outs._

My darling sister has not yet been cast―by all accounts, they couldn't find anyone diabolical enough, so for now I make do with talking to myself and making meaningful gestures at thin air. Together, in what is a rather one-sided conversation, we settle on a lamp that would look just fine on my bedside table. (Polystyrene gargoyle and all.) Then, as per the script, I spend a Significant Moment adrift in the centre of the set, gazing longingly at where Snow/Norbury and I rummaged through a drawer, side by side. I admit it isn't difficult for me to summon such emotion on my face―not only because I'm astoundingly good at my craft, but also because I've been longing after Snow for weeks, since the first day of shooting.

The moment I saw him in his hardhat during episode one, I was done for. And the second episode, where he was a decorator...smoothing his roller along my walls, thighs straining as he climbed a step ladder...

Good grief, I've been stupid for him for weeks.

Admittedly, I could have made my initial attraction more apparent. I believe me calling him a _threat to public safety_ in the midst of our first take, and my tendency to hiss whenever he stumbled over a line, _may_ have given the impression that I wasn't interested.

_But I am. I am interested, Snow. Intensely, painfully, give-the-man-an-Oscar levels of interested._

I look to where Dev's immediate destiny awaits―the end of Niall's queue. I can stand around and selfishly check out Snow, in more ways than one. (Well. There's only one way to check someone out, I suppose.) (My thoughts are not entirely pure, this late in the day.)

_When Dev finally joins the queue, looking cooler than he feels, Mordelia is throwing a tantrum about leaving. The store has become something of a dark and dangerous playground for her. She hits her brother and wrinkles his sleeve, but Dev will not be swayed. This isn't, after all, his favourite shirt._

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/49953507818/in/dateposted-public/)

I approach Snow steadily and meet his gaze. (Do I imagine he lights up for a moment?) I place my prop lamp on the conveyor belt and witter away at my imaginary sister, who in my head has sprouted two curling horns, like a miniature, shop-destroying devil. Perhaps things _aren't_ all in my head―Snow stares at me for a few long, torturous seconds before returning to his current customer. (An anonymous extra―a dowdy looking chap holding a chopping board and an artificial cactus.) (No sort of competition.) (Does Snow even _like_ men? Does Snow like _me_?)

When I reach the front of the queue, I tell myself it's heat from the lighting rigs that's making me burn. My imaginary Mordelia in tow, the lamp beeps past Snow's scanner and I do my best to concentrate on the scene, and not on Snow's open mouth. (He's a mouth-breather, which ought to repulse me on a cellular level, but I find myself oddly drawn in by his gaping maw. Like it's a black hole and I'm a dying star.)

He smiles up at me, as bright as the sun itself. “Thought you were looking for an oven? Won't get very far, cooking with this.” He rattles the lamp, looking at me with his downright boring eyes. I'm very impressed with him today. His improvisation hasn't caused any meltdowns or wild off-topic tangents. Bunce is pleased, the producers are pleased―and Snow even seems to be _enjoying_ himself.

“Right, well...” I taper off with no clue what to say. (Which is odd, because of the two of us, I'm undeniably more eloquent.) The receipt prints, the lamp is bagged, and the transaction ends all too quickly.

“Want the receipt in the bag, or with you?”

_With me. All of you, with me._

I let myself have it. For a second, a scene.

Us, here. Meeting like this.

_It's real and I can stay here. I can stay here with you._

“In the bag is fine,” I say slowly, eyes fixed on the lamp. I'm afraid if I go off script again, I'll never find a way back. He hands me the bag, smiling brightly all the while.

And _that's_ when I'm careless.

“Thank you, Simon.”

_Oh, bollocks._

I _feel_ Bunce's cry of despair before I hear it.

_“Cut! Cut, cut, bloody cut!”_

Simon blinks, apparently catching on as to what's occurred, and turns away. Is he blushing, too? It must be all the lights and wishful thinking that's clouding my head.

He drops his voice to a whisper. “You're welcome, Baz.”

I'm the only one who hears―assistants have already begun raiding the set and righting props, rewinding to the moment I join the queue. I squint past the cameras to see Wellbelove standing by the director's chair, smirking at us over a fistful of popcorn. I scowl at her, though it brings me no joy.

“ _Basil!”_ Penny calls through a completely unnecessary megaphone. _“It was going so well! Simon's finest work all week! Is it all a bit much for you? Do you need a reminder? Shall I staple it to your forehead? His character's name is―”_

“Yes, alright, I'm aware! I know who he is,” I snap, hiding my face in my hands.

"Are you sure?" Wellbelove sings, tossing a kernel at me and wandering off. "You seem awfully confused, Basilton. Does Dev need a lie down?"

 _It's not that bad,_ I tell myself. _Bunce is the only one upset with me, and she's always furious about something. It's her directorial brand._ _Wellbelove couldn't act her way out of a paper bag, so I needn't let her rile me up._ _If Snow can ruin five takes, I'm allowed to have this one―I just need to brush off the agony and remain professional.  
_

_“And don't forget the wonderment,”_ Bunce presses, still holding that ridiculous device to her mouth. _“Dev's wondering if he can find an excuse to come back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. I don't think a scowl's quite going to cut it, do you?”_

I mutter a thousand terrible curses under my breath, pretending not to hear her. (Does she really think I don't know the directions off by heart? I had them memorised within twenty-four hours of receiving the bloody script.) (It's a matter of personal pride.) (Wellbelove is terribly competitive, for someone who claims not to care if the entire set should go up in flames one day.)

Snow seems determined to act through to the end of the scene, despite the fact that nobody's watching, and the cameras are dead where they stand. He slides the receipt shyly across the counter to me as the directions dictate― _Niall defies the dashing Dev's wish to have it placed inside the bag_ ―and I play along. I can't possibly feel _more_ foolish, can I? Besides, there's something charming about it. Another bout of inspired improvisation from Snow.

 _Dev Grimble-Ditch is leaving the store as quickly as he entered, and he can feel his heart sinking._ (Well, I needn't work too hard to divine _that_ emotion―my heart _is_ sinking.) _But when he looks down at the receipt in his hand..._

I glance down as Dev, expecting to see the usual nonsense scrawl of letters and zeros Snow uses as a placeholder.

Instead, there's a rather realistic phone number. I count the digits―yes, it certainly _seems_ to be genuine.

Beneath the numbers, Snow has written something.

 _This isn't Niall's number_.

I look up. (As me.)

He's looking back. (At me.)

“If you know what I mean,” he whispers.

I'll be bloody damned. Is this...?

 _It's_ his _phone number. Simon's number_.

_Simon Snow is giving me his phone number. In the middle of a scene. Whilst we're on set. Shooting a television show._

Bunce is shouting at both of us now. _“Roll it back, you two! End of the queue, Basil, come on! And say the right name this time.”_ An assistant tugs on my sleeve, moving me into position.

How can I be expected to remember my lines, when my co-star's looking at me like that? When he...

“I know what you mean,” I say, holding his gaze.

He smiles and jabs at the cash till's fake buttons, cheeks stained pink. I scrunch the receipt into my pocket and try to remember where on this bloody set I'm supposed to be.

 _This isn't in the script_ , I think, staring at his curls, his mouth, the curve of his lashes as Bunce calls the next take, and we begin again. _But I've always loved to improvise._

Snow looks at me, balancing a pen behind his ear, and grins.

“Take seven, Dev.”

“Take seven, Niall.”

“Don't mess up your lines.”

I sneer, bite my lip, watch him fumble with the cactus.

“Don't destroy the props.”

I catch his eye and we're both smiling, trying to hide it.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/124761403@N07/49954009451/in/dateposted-public/)

Bunce calls through her preposterous megaphone: _"Action!_ ”

She doesn't know she's already missed the perfect take. How could she? It played out between the two of us.

Numbers in my pocket, name that's not my own.

I join the queue as somebody else, desperate to end the day as myself.

Take seven, Snow and I begin again.

(Again.)


End file.
